I Find No Peace
by ZdenkaWaldner
Summary: After the end of the War of Wrath, Feredwen, a follower of the sons of Fëanor, decides not to return to the Blessed Realm. (Gen. Reference to canonical character death; biased viewpoint character; internal monologue. Follows "The Messengers of Celegorm" and "Paths of Exile".)


"I find no peace, and all my war is done . . ."  
-Sir Thomas Wyatt

* * *

Feredwen sits on a black rock by the new coast, her knees drawn up to her chest. The beach is colder now after sunset, and a breeze from the sea tugs strands of hair from her braids, but she does not move to seek shelter. From her position, she can watch both land and sea. The sand is still strewn with wreckage: tree branches, shattered pieces of wood from ships or dwellings, tangled nets, less identifiable things. The waves attack the beach uselessly, one after another; they make a hissing sound as they retreat, leaving broken bubbles of sea-foam behind them. She reaches down to the sand beside her and gathers up a handful of worn pebbles to toss at the ocean.

The first pebble makes a _plunk_ sound before it sinks and disappears. The tossing waves shimmer with light; one star in particular shines very brightly, lighting a path westward across the sea. It does not comfort her. The Valar have said the Exiles can return. But return to what? She is no longer the girl who ran and sang, innocent, under the light of the Trees. Can they return her to a former time, unweave Vairë's tapestries and wash away the darkness of her spirit?

 _Plunk_. Another pebble. Even if they let her go free, how can she endure the eyes of the friends and kin of those she slew, the absence of the comrades who fell? How can she walk the streets of Tirion, when so many of those who should be there are changed or gone?

 _Plunk._ She remembers the herald of the Valar so long ago, speaking their Doom above the dark cliffs of Araman. _There shall ye find little pity, though all whom ye have slain shall entreat for you._ Though the Valar have lifted the doom of banishment, is it certain that those returning will not be judged and punished? What might the Valar yet do? She sees again Eönwë's cold eyes shining with an ancient light. The Valar are not like Elves; they do not know or understand the passions of the children of Ilúvatar, or what deeds may be done in hot blood and despair. Their beloved children are the Vanyar, the beautiful and obedient.

She thinks bitterly of the Vanyar she has seen here, with their elaborate braids and immaculate surcoats, their golden hair and gilded armor; how they murmur at the sight of the exiled Noldor and stare in astonishment at her comrades as if at strange wild animals! And Finarfin's people are no better, with their superior pitying looks, holding themselves aloof from their kindred. _Yes, we are ragged now,_ she wants to shout at them. _Our armor is more for use than for show, with nothing for a handhold that an enemy might seize. But we fought. We fought for long centuries, while you sat with idle hands in Valinor, dancing and singing on Taniquetil!_ Her fist clenches against the rock. _We fought against Morgoth to the last, until the Valar in their might wrestled with him and chained him. Our strength was not enough to bring him down. But we slew his Orcs and his fell creatures; we fought and we died. You would not scorn us now if we were not leaderless. You would not dare!_

 _Plunk._ "You left us!" she screams suddenly at the stars. She startles a sea-bird, which flies away with labored wing-beats. She can forgive the sons of Fëanor for dispersing their army, for leaving Middle-earth to the victorious host of the Valar once they had seen their foe in chains, but not for dying. Not for slipping away to the halls of Mandos one by one and leaving their faithful followers behind.

She remembers once in battle, her small knot of fighters was cut off from the main host, close-pressed by the enemy. A balrog's whip seared across her forearm; she still has the scar. And then Maedhros was there shouting a war-cry, his eyes blazing, his sword a deadly whirl of motion in his left hand. At once her heart lifted and her weary limbs felt lighter. He held them together that day, in bitterest defeat as in victory. Now he is gone, burned up in a blaze of fire. And Maglor the mighty singer: he was mighty also in battle, and faithful to his brothers. His songs lifted despair when nothing else could. One rumor has come to her that he cast himself into the sea; another, that he yet lives but went forth alone. She does not know which to believe. _You should not have gone, my lords. Or you should have taken us with you._

She lets her head rest against her knees. If she stays - what is there left to fight, or to fight for? The very land where they bled and died is gone, swallowed up by the sea. This cold emptiness is worse than the fury of battle, worse than guilt or grief.

Since before sun or moon first rose, she has followed the star of the House of Fëanor. Now the trumpets are silent, the banners unlifted. Shall she follow another lord? Beg mercy of the Valar, kneel to Ingwë's son or Finarfin – if they would take her? Ask haughty Galadriel to intercede?

She takes up another pebble. _Plunk._ No. Aman is no longer her home. She will not go quietly into the West. Nor will she serve the young king in Lindon – let them follow him who will. She stands and draws her sword one last time, her eyes tracing the silver-rayed star on the hilt. She faces westward, toward sunken Beleriand – not for the sake of the Valar, never for them – and salutes the dead with lifted blade. Then she casts it from her into the sea, watching it fall swiftly through the air. She tosses the scabbard after it. They make a louder noise than the pebbles. _Splash-plunk._ She turns her back on the West and walks away, until the sound of the waves fades into nothing behind her.

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_

 _There shall ye find little pity, though all whom ye have slain shall entreat for you._ \- A slightly contracted quotation from _The Silmarillion_ , "Of the Flight of the Noldor"

 _Now the trumpets are silent, the banners unlifted._ \- Adapted from "The Destruction of Sennacherib" by Lord Byron: "The tents are all silent, the banners alone, / The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown."

 _One rumor has come to her that he cast himself into the sea_ \- The rumor is false in this case – although there is an earlier version of the story in which it was Maglor, not Maedhros, who cast himself into a fiery chasm, and another in which they both died attempting to take the Silmarils.


End file.
